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mom poem

who loves the rain
do not grieve that it is over
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
made up of loveliness alone
do i like it
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
now while my lips are living
the hypocritic days
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
wheel me down by the meadow
look out upon the stars, my love
days endeared to every muse

 



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